


The Legacy of the Sky Princess

by MaloryArcher



Series: #ClexaWeek2017 [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: #ClexaWeek2017, Action, Alternate Universe, ClexaWeek2017, Crime Fighting, Enemies to Lovers, Espionage, F/F, Fluff, Museums, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 10:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10013702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaloryArcher/pseuds/MaloryArcher
Summary: Jewel Thief Clarke and Secret Agent Lexa have fought on opposite sides of the law for years, but will Clarke's latest score turn the tables? Enemies to Lovers.Day One of #ClexaWeek2017





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: I wrote this very quickly and edited very sloppily.
> 
> Happy reading!

This is going to be the biggest moment of Clarke’s life. The biggest score of her life, at least. The Sunburst Tiara, once the pride and joy of the crown princess of a failed empire, gleams behind it’s glass enclosure, never dimmed or diminished by the glare of a television screen or computer monitor. It practically calls to Clarke every time she sees it. She doesn’t just want it, though, Clarke _needs_ it. That tiara is going to be her legacy: the best, and the last, score of the infamous Sky Princess.  
It feels like everything has been leading to this. Years of diligence and disguises, making connections and traveling almost nonstop. After every haul, after every near-brush with the law, Clarke has thought about this tiara, a piece so beautiful that she thinks she’d rather rot in jail than miss her chance to hold it, even just for a while.

She’s done months of planning, months of late nights poring over pilfered schematics, examining floorplans, memorizing security shift change schedules. She has put in the time, and her whole team has put in the work.

Monty has spent so much time working on the security cameras, hacking, accessing, and altering the feedback loops _just_ enough that only he would notice, and splicing them to test the effectiveness of the museum guards, that Clarke’s sure he can do it in his sleep. Jasper has rigged the perfect harness—supportive, but not restrictive—to a motorized pulley that Clarke can operate with a small, simple joystick, and installed a failsafe that allows him to control it remotely if she gets in a bind; he’s tested it about seventy times from different heights, and wearing weighted vests, just to make sure that Clarke has a reliable way in, and back out. Finn has charmed his way into narrowing down potential roadblock and checkpoint response to their operation, and he’s worked every connection he has to set off a few diversions to slow down police all over the city, just in case.

The wheels are in motion, but on the morning of the heist, Clarke has a weird feeling. She’s had weird feelings before, of course, usually from a mixed bag of nerves and inexperience, but not in years. This time, though, she just feels _funny_.

It’s never stopped her before, and it won’t stop her now.

She and the boys have it on good authority that this night, this quiet Monday night when the museum is closed a little earlier than usual and the staff consists of two doughnut-eating middle aged men, is their best shot.

Besides, Finn’s contacts are already in place, ready to raise non-lethal hell and generally piss off the police department until Clarke’s gotten the job done. The Blake siblings are leading the police on a wild goose chase involving the mayor’s prized dachshund, Coco. There are a couple of delinquents from the Lost Boys crew setting off an illegal firework display in the Financial District. Clarke’s old friend, Anya, is leading the Black Widow motorcycle gang into a good old fashioned, but mostly staged, bar brawl against Carl Emerson’s Mountain Men in the North Bottoms. And, not one to be outdone in creating diversions, the great Dante Wallace has come out of retirement to convince a throng of octogenarians to overrun their nursing home staffs and escape out into different parts of the city. With all that chaos keeping the cops busy, Clarke likes her chances, weird feeling or no.

At half past eleven, there are sirens ringing out in the distance, and Clarke is safely shrouded in shadows on the roof of the museum looking down at the Sunburst Tiara. It’s gorgeous, even sixty feet away, below the vaulted glass ceiling. She anchors the cord that’ll lower her into the exhibition room and its motor to the heavy metal base that surrounds the glass, and spreads out her tools in the order she thinks she’ll need them. She stretches, too, because a poorly timed leg cramp can be the difference between the perfect heist and jail time.

She’s in her favorite catsuit, the navy-blue neoprene one that’s more than a little difficult to slip into, but also makes her ass look great. It’s tight and flexible, and accommodates all the right tools for the job. It doesn’t hurt that there’s a nice zipper option to show a little cleavage, too, when the situation calls for it. She’s also dusted off the long, red wig she favored when she was younger, just for the occasion. She’s come a long way from being the bumbling twenty-year-old pulling off small cons, but bringing her look full circle feels right.

One last score, and she can cement her legacy.

Monty’s voice is filtering in through her earpiece, like always, narrating the footage he’s getting from the security cameras and waiting for the right moment to give Clarke the green light.

“Okay, little guy’s going on his rounds, and, wow, the big guy just dropped jelly filling right onto his keyboard. Yikes,” he says, “that’s the real crime here, don’t you think?”

“Downright felonious,” Clarke says with an eyeroll, “how long?”

“His rounds usually take twenty minutes, start to finish. He likes to start in the West gallery, then hit the Sunburst chamber, and work his way east. That gives you about a thirty-seven-minute window to get in and out before the big guy does his outdoor rounds. Little guy is almost your way. You’ll be able to see him in three, two, now—”

Sure enough, Clarke sees a tall, thin man in polyester pants pointing his flashlight around the room. She looks down on his little ballcap as he walks the perimeter. He shines the light straight up, and she recedes back into shadows until he disappears. 

“And there he goes,” Clarke says, “go time?”

“Go time, _Sky Princess_.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” she says. Some pretty boy newscaster gave her that name after a few successful attempts at repelling her way into heavily secured buildings. It just so happened to stick.

“Last time, I promise. Jas says to make sure you anchor your suction cups, too. And don’t go too deep with the glass cutters or you’ll drop the inside panel, and alert the guard.”

“Not my first rodeo,” she says, “but I’m on it.”

“Clock is on,” Monty says, and Clarke knows he’ll give her periodic updates if she gets behind schedule. Jasper is probably sitting right beside him, joystick in his hand, in case she needs him to step in, and Finn is in a car just down the block, tapped illegally into the police scanner. It’s go time.

She sticks two mid-sized suction cups to the outer pane, anchors them to the same metal base the cord and motor are attached to, and picks out her glass cutter. She cuts slowly, angling her blade so that the pane can be pulled up, but not fall through. It isn’t quite as thick as she’s expecting, and not nearly as heavy, so she pulls it up and lays it gently on the roof. She fastens suction cups to the inner glass, and repeats the steps. The glass is heavier this time, but she manages to yank it out just the same, without losing a single shard or speck of the grit that sometimes comes from using the cutter.

She drapes the thick, leathery cloth Jasper sent with her to keep her cord from being cut by the glass over both panes and tucks it into the base. She checks that her cord is extended just enough to drop her a foot or so into the room and takes a deep breath.

“I’m going in,” she tells Monty.

“Twenty-nine minutes, now. Godspeed, Captain,” he says, and she rolls her eyes one more time before climbing into the circular opening she’s created and letting herself get just inside the chamber.

Jasper’s joystick controller and harness work perfectly, smoothly lowering Clarke with just the flick of her thumb. She’s already fifteen feet down when she realizes she has a problem.

She hears something. It’s only for a moment, and it’s faint, but something rustles behind her, and she’s almost afraid to turn around.

“Monty?”

“Everything okay,” he asks.

“Not sure,” she admits, “how long have you been reviewing footage?”

“For weeks, Clarke, duh,” he says.

“Twenty-four hours a day, Mont?”

“Basically.”

“Basically, or definitely?”

“I could’ve missed a few minutes, here and there, but I looked, Clarke. Why?”

“I think we’ve got company,” Clarke says, even though the rustling has stopped and she can’t make out anything moving in the darkness ahead of her.

She’s almost afraid to turn around, but she does it anyway. It’s isn’t graceful, that’s for sure, but the blonde manages to grab hold of the cord and to get herself spinning just slowly enough to take in her surroundings.

“Maybe you should call it, Clarke. You’ve only got twenty-four minutes, tops. We’ll catch it when it goes on display in Germany.”

“I’m not waiting for Germany,” she says, straining her eyes to see, “I’m too close.”

Monty sighs into her earpiece.

“Use the light on your belt, at least,” he says, “you’re still above the cameras, so I can’t really help.”

“Got it,” she says, freeing the tiny flashlight and turning it on just in time to catch a movement along the far wall.

“Fuck,” she says, following the movement as best as she can before it’s out of sight, “something’s up, Monty.”

“Get out, Clarke. I’m sending in the cavalry.”

Her thumb is poised on the joystick, ready to follow Monty’s advice, when the light finally catches the cause of the rustling sound. There’s a person, decked out in a patterned, cream-colored bodysuit that Clarke can barely differentiate from the molding, moving along the along the wall like a lizard, without a harness in sight. They recoil when the light catches their face, and Clarke sees the clunky night vision mask that’s been allowing them to surveil her.

That can only mean one thing: Clarke’s fucked.

“Mayday, Monty. I think it’s the Coalition.”

She flicks her thumb up like her life depends on it, the cord tightening to pull her up. If the police are an inconvenience, then the Coalition are the bane of Clarke’s existence. For years, they’ve done this song and dance, chasing her team around the world and just barely missing her each time. They work in secret, cleaning up behind inept police forces, and targeting international criminals. This time, they were supposed to be in Zurich, trying to thwart Diana Sydney’s play for some statue. Apparently, their resources are not stretched as thin as Clarke was led to believe.

“Finn’s almost there, and Jasper’s on the way, Clarke. You’ve got stunners and those little cement gum bombs in your belt, plus the mini-dart gun.”

She’s only made it up ten feet, because the recoiling of the cord is not as seamlessly easy as the release of it, when they strike. The person in the shadows shoots something web-like at Clarke, and she can’t gather the momentum to escape it.

The web furls up around Clarke’s torso, and tightens until her arms are trapped to her side. She can’t quite move her wrist to the joystick.

“I need Jasper on manual. My legs are free, but my arms are trapped.”

“Can you reach the string on your left wrist?”

Clarke forces her hand to contort until she can catch it between two fingers.

“Got it,” she says, finally rising again, with Jasper in control of the motor.

“Pull it!”

She does, just as another web is shooting out and catching her legs in the same vice-grip, and the suit she loves so much surprises her by expanding. The pressure it creates is awful at first, but it swells so fast and with such force that both webs snap and fall away. It deflates just as quickly.

“Security’s on the move, Clarke,” Monty warns her, “I’ll try to distract them.”

Clarke is within reaching distance of the window, and tries to lift herself out, but the operative in the shadows launches off the wall with a force that can’t be human, and knocks Clarke off the mark. If Clarke is right, the Coalition might only be a year or two out from developing reliable jet packs.

“Do I need to be prepared for security?”

“I set off a dummy alarm on the east wing, so you’ve got time.”

“Where are the guys?”

“There’s an agent on the roof, too,” Monty says, “Finn and Jas are getting slowed down. You’re kind of on your own, Clarke.”

“Shit,” she mutters. She tosses both cement gum bombs at the agent, but can’t steady herself. She misses both times, watching twin explosions of gray gunk spreading on the walls.

She gets ahold of the stunner, and wills herself to stop swinging through the air. The hit seems to have lowered her just out of reach of the opening, and her joystick is officially useless until Jasper can switch it back into her control.

Again, the operative shoots out toward Clarke. This time, Clarke catches them on the hip with the stunner, and it barely seems to register, except they seem a little less steady when they reach the wall this time. Clarke feels around in her belt, brainstorming ways to get herself out of this, and then remembers her collapsible grappling hook.

She has to throw it manually, but the hook catches the opening, and Clarke starts pulling herself up.

This time, when the operative tries to shoulder into her, Clarke is ready, and gets her stunner right into the exposed skin of their throat. It works, pulling the first verbal sound Clarke’s heard all night. It’s not quite a grunt, and not quite a whine, but Clarke knows it must hurt. She also knows that the operative must be a woman. She goes sailing into the wall, and Clarke’s a little amazed, and somewhat relieved, that she didn’t go crashing down.

The distraction gives her just enough time to pull herself back through the opening. She can make out Jasper and Finn trading punches with someone clear on the other side of the roof. It doesn’t look like they’re winning. She tries to quickly replace the outer pane of glass to slow the other woman down, but whatever gadget is allowing her to propel herself through air gives her just enough gusto to get her hands on the inner pane.

“I’ve got eyes on you again,” Monty says, “but Finn and Jasper aren’t going to be much help. That agent is wrecking them both. The guards are still in the east wing. You okay?”

“Not out of the woods, yet.”

“Did you use the stunner?”

“I used the stunner twice, lost both cement gum bombs, and I’m out of ideas, Monty,” Clarke says.

Clarke lets the pane drop back onto the roof and steels herself for the inevitable fight. She takes a deep breath, wishing she’d trained more for this.

The agent is pulling her up when Monty’s voice rings out again, “The guards are panicking, and just signaled for the cops. You’ve got to shoot him.”

“What? Shoot who?”

“The guy, Clarke. The Coalition guy. The mini-dart will put him down long enough to get out.”

“Fine,” she agrees, “desperate times, I guess.”

Clarke palms the mini-dart gun, and lets the agent pull herself up through the opening. As soon as she’s cleared it, Clarke takes her shot. The agent dodges with ease, cartwheeling out of range and landing in a fighting stance.

“That’s enough, Sky Princess. You’re done.”

Clarke has a better idea, and yanks her flashlight up to shine directly into the night vision goggles. The agent is temporarily blinded, and doubles over in apparent pain. She rips off the night vision goggles and the tan cap that matches her bodysuit and lets them fall to the ground. She shakes out her modelesque brown hair and pulls up her fists.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Clarke huffs under her breath.

“What is it?” Monty sounds alarmed in her ear. Clarke ignores him.

This isn’t the first time she’s seen this Coalition agent. In fact, it’s at least the fifth in the last few years. They’ve fought hand to hand twice already; she got Clarke’s favorite jet black wig, and almost her entire face, singed when she activated a laser trap that Monty almost couldn’t override in Luxembourg City; and this girl once shot Clarke in the ass with a semi-poisonous dart in Peru. Three years later, and the mark still hasn’t quite faded. All the guilt Clarke had over putting a stunner to the woman’s throat evaporates.

This woman, Agent Lexa Wyatt, if she isn’t mistaken, is the closest thing to a nemesis Clarke has ever had.

“We can’t keep meeting like this,” Clarke says. She only has two more chances with the dart gun, and they both know Clarke is a terrible shot.

“Stop taking things that aren’t yours, turn yourself in, and maybe I’ll visit you in prison,” Lexa says. Neither of them step toward the other.

“Oh, is that your favorite Coalition agent,” Monty asks, “what’s her name again?”

“Shut up,” Clarke tells him. All the boys are very aware of Clarke’s disdain for this woman.

“Excuse me,” Lexa says, finally lunging forward with two quick punches.

“Right, Agent Lexa Wyatt,” Monty confirms, “of the Manhattan Wyatts. Twenty-nine years old, trust fund baby, Sarah Lawrence alumna, and a founding member of the Coalition. Ooh, they have somewhere between nine and sixteen agents. They’ve really expanded in the last couple of years.”

Clarke dodges one blow, but catches a jab to the stomach. She tries an elbow to Lexa’s face and follows through with a roundhouse kick.

“Get over yourself,” Clarke says, “I’m not talking to you.”

“Right,” Lexa says, “I’ll be sure to add hearing voices to your file.”

Clarke jabs at Lexa, but the brunette uses her momentum against her and sends her tumbling toward closer to the lip of the roof.

Clarke pops back up in time to dodge a swift kick.

“Whoa,” Monty says, “did you see she single-handedly took down Nia Quinn’s whole operation? Watch that—”

Lexa’s right boot slams into Clarke’s kneecap, and the blonde loses her balance. The pain throbs.

“Stop distracting me,” Clarke pleads.

“Sorry,” Monty says, “shutting up now.”

Clarke can hear the wince in his voice.

“You’re talking to someone,” Lexa says, sending her boot sailing toward Clarke’s face. It makes contact, and Clarke tastes blood, but she also catches a good enough hold to pull the brunette onto the ground.

“Still not you,” Clarke says.

She lands a solid punch to the gut. It doesn’t do much to slow down the brunette. She just launches herself on top of Clarke and pulls a pair of handcuffs from god knows where. It happens quickly, so quickly that Clarke only has about one second to recognize how good the other woman smells, and two seconds to remember the dart gun, but it’s enough. Clarke shoots Lexa, at close range, in the stomach. The brunette lets out a surprised grunt. Her grip on the handcuffs slackens, and she slumps down, down, down, until she’s rolling off Clarke.

“That’s for the permanent scar on my ass cheek,” Clarke tells her.

Green eyes move around, but Lexa’s face and body are otherwise paralyzed. It’s oddly stirring, seeing her so helpless. Clarke and the boys have always gotten away, but, except for the time Jasper accidentally set Lexa on fire, Clarke’s never seen the woman look alarmed.

“Can I talk now,” Monty asks, “because that was awesome.”

“What now?”

“We’ve got more company.”

“Friends or foes,” Clarke asks, but then she hears the sirens echoing in the distance. 

“The other agent is doing the limp of shame away, and Finn and Jasper are free and headed your way, but you guys have less than ten if you want to avoid handcuffs.”

Clarke has to think fast.

“Shaggy, send Scooby my way, but tell Fred to go get the car ready.” Clarke uses their codenames in a last-ditch effort to keep Lexa from figuring out who they actually are. Something tells Clarke that the other woman would never let up if she knew who they were. Monty uses the best anonymizers in the world, but if he wormed his way in the Coalition’s servers, Clarke refuses to offer up any unnecessary information, lest someone else get into theirs. 

“On it,” Monty says.

Clarke retrieves the tools she can’t bear to leave behind, pulls down the leathery drape and her grappling hook, and drops both glass panels back into place. She doesn’t have the time to laser seal them, but if nothing looks out of order, it might buy her a little time. Jasper comes running up to her as she looks over everything.

“Let’s move,” Jasper says, “we don’t need any of this and our ride’s waiting.”

Lexa is still paralyzed on the ground. If the cops find her up here, she’s almost definitely doing the time for Clarke’s crime. Even if they find out she’s in the Coalition, she’s done. The Coalition may be the most formidable group Clarke has ever faced, but, at the end of the day, they’re still a bunch of pariahs leading an international movement of vigilante justice.

“Help me out here, Scooby” Clarke says, stepping out of her harness and sliding Lexa’s feet into the leg openings. Her eyes are still wild.

“What the hell, Daphne,” Jasper asks. He stands as still as if he’d been hit with a dart.

“We don’t have time to argue.”

It’s a struggle, but Clarke glares Jasper into lifting Lexa’s legs enough to tighten her into the harness. Clarke makes him help her to get the brunette to the edge of the roof, where they can lower her to the ground in darkness.

“Will it hold us all?” Both Jasper and Lexa flash Clarke eyes of unfiltered alarm. Clarke doesn’t stop to reassure them.

“The harness, no. But, the cord? In theory,” Jasper says, “but I only tested it up to three hundred pounds.”

“Fine,” Clarke says, “you use the grappling hook. It’s over there.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of the now barely noticeable opening. He slinks off to get it.

“Seriously guys, four minutes. Finn’s idling right below you. Is your weird obsession really this important,” Monty asks her.

“Not obsessed with Le—anything,” Clarke barely catches herself from giving her nemesis the wrong idea, “Your talking privileges are re-revoked.”

Jasper hitches one end of the grappling hook to the roof and ties the other half to himself, while Clarke ties the small length of rope in her belt around herself and Lexa. Clarke is face to face with the still-frozen brunette, but the woman’s eyes go, somehow, even wider.

“Relax,” Clarke says, “unless you’d rather _I_ visit _you_ in prison.

Jasper gives them a last lift onto the edge of the roof and double checks that it’s retracted enough.

“You got your joystick,” he asks, and Clarke nods, “all right. You’ve got control. See you down there.”

“Two minutes,” Monty says.

Clarke eases herself and Lexa down off the ledge until the gritty brick façade rubs against her suit. She pushes off the wall as best as she can with Lexa’s body weighing her down and their legs tangling.

Jasper has to manually control the slack on the rope attached to the grappling hook, but he gets down in about thirty seconds. Clarke and Lexa take twice as long, but Finn and Jasper are ready at the bottom.

The three of them work together to free Lexa from the harness, to unbind her from Clarke, and cart her into the getaway car. They sprawl her out in the backseat, and Clarke has to fold her long limbs to share the space. They drive off in time to see red and blue lights appearing far off in the distance. 

“I hope you realize this was a terrible plan, _Princess_ ,” Finn chastises.

“Can she hear,” Jasper asks.

“Yup,” Monty answers for the team to hear, “but she probably won’t be moving for at least an hour.”

“Where the hell are we going to ditch her,” Finn asks, eyeing Clarke in the rear-view mirror. His obvious annoyance makes him look ridiculous under his curly blond wig and fake, bushy brows. He and Jasper both have fake moustaches stuck to their faces with spirit gum, and Clarke can barely think with their eyes on her.

Lexa’s eyes are on her, too, studying her. Clarke fishes a square of cloth out of her catsuit and uses it to blindfold the other woman.

“The palace,” Clarke says, “drop us at the palace.”

“Daphne’s lost it,” Jasper says, probably to Monty.

“You sure about that,” Finn asks.

“Just get us there, Fred. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Twenty minutes of inconspicuously lawful driving gets them to the palace, and out of the range of communication with Monty, where Finn and Jasper unceremoniously help Clarke get Lexa out of the car and onto a wooden chair inside.

“Tell Shaggy I’m signing off for the night. Rendezvous you-know-where and you-know-when,” she says cryptically when they get back into the car.

“Sure thing, if you’re not behind bars,” Finn says, and then they’re riding off in a cloud of mutual annoyance.

The palace isn’t much to look at, just an old, abandoned-looking bar with squares of cardboard lining sections of the worn, speckled linoleum floor. It isn’t abandoned, though. It’s one of several properties Clarke owns under one of her aliases, and there’s a pretty well-kept bunker underneath, which is probably why Finn and Jasper are surprised she’d risk letting Lexa find the place.

Clarke hasn’t thought this through. She should’ve left the other woman to be caught and out of her hair, finally. Now, she’s got thirty minutes or less until the paralysis is worn off, and the brunette is almost definitely going to come out swinging.

Clarke settles for tying Lexa to the chair. She binds her hands and feet in rope that she keeps under the bar, then loops it intricately through the different parts of the chair. She liberates Lexa of all the weapons and gadgets she can see, fully aware that she’s probably missing several, and drags her chair into a corner, so that her view is limited to the wall.

Clarke takes off the blindfold.

The wild eyes are replaced with as much skepticism as a human can convey without the full aid of their eyebrows. Clarke can see the barely perceptible twitch in her forehead. Looks like thirty minutes is about right, at this rate.

“Don’t give me that look,” Clarke says, “I just saved your ass.”

Clarke drops some of her gear on the floor and pulls up another chair.

“You seemed annoyed that I wasn’t talking to you earlier. I’m talking to you now.”

Lexa squints her eyes.

“We need to come to an understanding,” Clarke starts, “I don’t mind you or the Coalition, really. Well, I consider you my nemesis, but you did shoot me in the ass with a dart.”

She squints harder.

“Yeah, yeah, I shot you in the stomach and stunned your throat, but, with the life-saving, I’d say we’re about even.”

Lexa rolls her eyes.

“Oh, and my dart may have paralyzed you, but yours gave me a serious rash, and I was dizzy for days. I know, you’ve got a hard-on for justice, or whatever, but we really need to call a truce here, don’t you think?”

Blank stare.

“Okay, how about you blink once for yes, and twice for no. Sound good?”

One blink.

“Do you think we’re even?”

Two blinks.

“Okay, you’re a grudge holder, fine. What if I gave you money?” 

Two blinks.

“You could expand your Coalition even more. Maybe even get more than nine agents.”

She squints harder this time, with the cooperation of her eyebrows, then blinks twice.

"Right, obscenely rich. I forgot."

Lexa lets out something relatively close to a laugh.

“Fine. I could let you stun me, anywhere but the face?”

Two blinks.

“You’re really attached to this jail thing, aren’t you?”

One blink.

Clarke sighs, “I didn’t want to bring the big guns, but I’m really not sure how you’re going to put me in jail without landing your whole Coalition behind bars, too. You guys aren’t exactly lawful, you know?”

Lexa gives her the most drawn out eyeroll she’s ever seen.

“I’m sure the cops would be relieved to nab the Sky Princess, but how do you think they’ll feel bringing in Lexa Wyatt, of the Manhattan Wyatts, for, essentially, committing the same crimes I’ve committed? Do your parents know what you’re doing with your trust fund, Lexa?”

A harsh sound leaves Lexa’s throat, but she blinks twice.

“I’m assuming you want to keep it that way?”

One blink this time.

“Fine,” Clarke says easily, “then you give up on putting me away, and I won’t ask my team to give up your not-so-secret identity to your parents, or to out the rest of your team to the _real_ authorities. Keep in mind that I plan on retiring this year.”

Lexa’s eyebrows inch up.

“Scout’s honor,” Clarke assures her, “so, does that sound like a deal?”

Lexa’s mouth twitches, and her nostrils flare ever so slightly, but she blinks once.

“Glad we got that out of the way,” Clarke says, “when you’re functioning again, I’ll let you go, but if you go back on this deal, I’ll destroy you, understand?”

One blink and a huff.

“I’m going to loosen the binds on your feet, okay?”

One blink, and Clarke frees the other woman’s feet.

Lexa makes a few guttural sounds in the back of her throat, and Clarke knows the dart must be wearing off. The brunette lifts her head up slightly from where it’s balanced on the chair, and it slumps forward, too heavy to support. Clarke gently leans her back against the chair.

“Take it easy, will you? This truce would be a lot less satisfying if you accidentally broke your own neck before I could hold up my end.”

Lexa rolls her eyes, yet again, and manages to open and close her mouth, just slightly, a few times.

Clarke sits in her seat, sometimes maintaining tense eye contact with the other woman while her body wakes from its temporary slumber, sometimes looking into the alerts she’s set to receive on her phone, making sure this night hasn’t blown up in her face any worse than she thinks it has.

She can kiss the Sunburst Tiara goodbye, that’s for sure. Tonight might as well be her retirement. She thinks they have enough dirt on Lexa to hold off the Coalition, but it doesn’t even feel worth it anymore. A life of crime is exhausting.

“Your wig is crooked,” Lexa’s voice finally sounds, raspy and unsure. She clears her throat.

“Oh yeah,” Clarke says, and then she pulls out the few pins still securing her red wig and lets it flop onto the floor. She peels away the cap underneath next, and shakes out long, blonde locks.

“So, that’s why you avoid blonde wigs?”

“I’ve avoided blonde wigs since an incident in Johannesburg involving a very misguided businessman with a gross lack of respect for women. He thought I was a high-class hooker.”

Lexa snorts, “Did he think you were a high-class hooker, or did you tell yourself that for comfort?”

“Please. Like I’d be anything but a high-class hooker.”

“Dominatrix, maybe, since you like tying people up,” Lexa says, weakly lifting her arms against the ropes.

“Not really my thing, usually. You’re a special circumstance.”

“Never thought I’d be getting complimented by an international jewel thief.”

“That private college education really set you up for success,” Clarke jokes, “and I never thought I’d be tying a woman to a chair in an abandoned bar or joking around with the leader of the Coalition.”

“About that,” Lexa starts, “nobody can know. The members of the Coalition might get in your way, but they don’t deserve to have their lives ruined over it.”

“You know disguises exist, right? I’m sure the NSA is fully aware of your identity by now, all of them, probably, and they’re letting you run around like you own the world.”

“I have certain connections in place, and you probably know better than anyone how effective money can be in preserving secrets.”

Lexa finally picks up her head, unassisted, and rolls it carefully side to side.

“I’m serious, Lexa. If you leave me alone, your identity is safe with me. You’ve seen my face, and my hair, and my best supervillain moves, so it’s not like you couldn’t ruin my life, too.”

“I don’t know your name, though,” Lexa shrugs, “unless you and your associates are really named after a bunch of cartoon characters.”

“Just to clarify, we _are_ in agreement not to hunt each other down, right?”

“You have my word, Sky Princess,” Lexa says. Clarke believes her.

“You can call me Clarke,” the blonde says, “or you could, if we were ever going to see each other again.”

Lexa hums.

“What? Don’t tell me you’re going to miss shooting at each other and escaping each other’s traps.”

“Not exactly. I’m just not sure what I’m going to do when I don’t have you to chase around, anymore.”

“If I can make a suggestion,” Clarke starts, “you should take a vacation.”

“Why? So more of your buddies can make off with stolen goods while local police scratch their heads?”

“That, and you seem really uptight. Something tells me that you’re tightly wound.”

“You sure that's not the rope,” Lexa asks. She lifts her arms slightly and shifts her feet.

“Could be the rope,” Clarke says, “but I still think you need a break.”

Clarke moves to start untying Lexa.

“You don’t really know me, Clarke.”

“No, but I know that you’ve shown up at half the jobs I’ve planned in the last few years, and nobody with hobbies or a job they like or a love life could manage that schedule.”

The rope slackens around Lexa, and Clarke drops back into her chair, but the brunette only moves to roll stiff shoulders.

“You’ve been a jewel thief for, what, seven years? Are you telling me you have all those things?”

“Eight years, and being a jewel thief _is_ my job, for a little while longer, at least. Collecting beautiful things is my hobby.”

“What about the love life,” Lexa asks. If her eyes fall to Clarke’s lips for a second, Clarke blames the aftereffects of the dart.

“Like I said, you can’t keep a schedule like ours and have it all.”

“Why do you do it?”

“Because it’s exciting, and I’m good at it,” Clarke admits, “You?”

“It’s exciting and I’m good at it,” Lexa echoes.

“You are,” Clarke agrees, “if you ever lose the noble thing, you’d be unstoppable on the dark side.”

They both laugh.

“You’d probably fit right in with the Coalition, if you renounce your evil ways and return all those beautiful things you can’t seem to keep your hands off of.”

“Tempting,” Clarke says, “but I can think of another beautiful thing, or two, that I’d still very much like to get my hands on.”

Clarke unabashedly lets her eyes roam down to Lexa’s bodysuit. What it lacks in aesthetic appeal, it more than makes up for in tightness. It leaves very little to the imagination. Lexa raises an eyebrow when Clarke’s eyes finally travel back up.

“I’ll bet,” Lexa says with a smirk, “Old habits die hard, I hear.”

“Very. About your vacation,” Clarke starts, “how would you feel about it overlapping with mine?”

Lexa pulls her lip into her mouth, and Clarke follows the movement with her eyes, until it’s released.

“What? You want me to chase you abroad, again?”

“Something like that. Maybe, instead of the chasing, we could travel at the same speed, and in the same direction.”

“And what would we do, Clarke?”

“I seem to recall years of you going where I wanted to go, Lexa. This time, I’ll let you choose.”

Clarke can’t say she’s surprised when Lexa’s first choice is to bridge the gap between their chairs. The dart isn’t completely out of Lexa’s system, apparently, but neither woman seems to mind when Lexa’s sluggish footwork sends her toppling into Clarke’s lap.

Clarke is content to let the other woman make all the choices going forward, if it means she can get used the feel of warm lips pressing against hers on a regular basis. Even if it means the occasional hard bite to her lip or her neck, then a grin and a _you paralyzed me, Clarke_ in lieu of an apology.

Lexa and Clarke each uphold their ends of the bargain, and each of them keep their teams safe. Lexa’s parents don’t find out how their daughter is spending her trust fund, even if it takes all of Clarke’s self-control not to spill the secret when, the first time she meets them, Lexa’s dad says he wishes she’d sign up for a self-defense class. Clarke wants to laugh out loud, wants to ask Lexa’s dad what kind of low level purse snatcher he thinks can get past her hand-to-hand combat skills, but she doesn’t. She just plays the role of the mild-mannered girlfriend of their mild-mannered daughter and giggles about it in bed with Lexa later.

Monty, Jasper, and Finn hang onto their skepticism for the better part of a year, especially when Clarke tells them all she’s retiring early, without nabbing the Sunburst Tiara, to do touristy things with her secret agent girlfriend. Their skepticism melts away when, one by one, the guys get tired of being bad, make amends for their biggest cons, and are welcomed into the Coalition, where they turn out to be surprisingly good at being good.

All the goodness turns out to be contagious, and Clarke finds herself dragging Lexa and the Coalition on a treasure hunt, recovering her horde of beautiful things and returning them anonymously to their rightful homes, much to the delight of prettyboy newscasters and police, alike. She even joins the Coalition, and spends many happy years fighting side by side with Lexa, on the same team, in the name of justice. And, when Clarke really wants to see something beautiful, something other than Lexa, of course, Lexa takes her to a museum, and they pay the admission fee.

The legacy of the Sky Princess, it turns out, is full of both beautiful and good things.


End file.
